


Molly's Misadventure

by Maejones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal, Blow Job, Dom!Sherlock, F/M, Hardcore Sex, Kink, Light Bondage, Sex in ALL its forms, Sherlock does naughty things to Molly, Sherlock is in charge, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, did I mention smut?, everything and the kitchen sink, sex toy, the scarf makes an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/pseuds/Maejones
Summary: Molly's game of fantasy masturbation goes terribly awry. Now she is trapped in Sherlock's flat naked! What will he do when he discovers what she's been playing at?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leidibrf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leidibrf/gifts).



> This fic was part of a Sherlolly writing challenge under the pseudonym 'Smutember'.

_Tick! Clack! tikakakakatick_

     "Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh nooooooooooo. Shite!"

     Molly flipped onto her tummy and wriggled to look over the edge of the bed. Her arm wrenched at the shoulder and she hissed at the sharp pain as metal bit into her flesh. She could not see the key to her cuffs anywhere on the floorboards below.

     "Fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck. Please, be reachable!"

     She leaned forward, placed a hand on the floor and lowered herself upside down until she was looking under the bed with her hips anchored to the mattress above.

     "Shite! Shite! SHIIIIITE!" She whacked her hand against the floor until her palm stung.

     As nightmares went, this was the worst she could imagine. The key to the cuffs that had her shackled lay far out of reach near the end of the bed. For several minutes, she tried to move the bed closer and twist this way and that but no amount of gymnastics were going to allow her to put her fingers on it. She was absolutely fucked, and not in the way she had envisioned.

     Shaking, she wrestled herself back up onto the bed where she crossed her free arm over her belly. Heat flared through her face and in the next instant every inch of her skin flushed cold. She grimaced at the specter of her clothes hanging neatly over the chair against the wall where she had carefully draped them only minutes previous. Alas, they were no more within her reach than that blasted key. Her stomach gurgled. She took stock of her grim situation.

      She was naked.

      Her right wrist securely fastened via cuffs to an immovable object.

      She sat next to a bag of sex toys.

      All on Sherlock Holmes' bed at 221B Baker Street.

      Molly groaned and slapped her hand to her burning face. Her only saving grace was her mobile that occupied a spot on the side table next to the bed. She peeked between her fingers. Again, a wave of white hot embarrassment flashed through her skin. Who could she call, she wondered?

      Dialing '999' was out of the question. If she wasn't arrested for trespassing, she would be shamed as a crazy stalker in all the London rags. How else could she explain away intentionally cuffing herself to the famous detective's bed with the intent to masturbate as part of a fantasy she had been having since she met him? her situation was the fodder of tabloid dreams.

      She chewed her lip. The most likely candidate to rescue her was Mrs. Hudson but Sherlock's landlady was out of town. In fact, the only reason Molly had access to the flat was because the older woman had asked Molly to water her plants and check Sherlock's fridge to ensure there was nothing left to decay (understandably, she did not want to encounter any wayward body parts he had forgotten). Sherlock himself had been gone for weeks with no one having any idea of his return, for which Molly was now grateful. A thought dawned on her and in the next moment, she had tapped Mary's contact info into her phone and rang her number. However, her throat closed up as the call went to voicemail. Three times Molly redialed only to give up and leave a message for Mary to call her back as soon as possible. She bit a piece of her nail off nervously.

      Who was left? None of her friends had keys to the apartment and Molly had made sure to deadbolt the front door. Greg Lestrade came to mind but when she imagined his face, she decided she would rather die than have him see her like this. Besides, he would never be able to keep it secret from Sherlock. So, Molly waited and prayed to all things holy that Mary would return her call. When the chill on her bare flesh became uncomfortable, she wormed her way under the covers (which smelled deliciously like Sherlock), tucked her tote full of naughty toys under her free arm and watched her cellphone with baited breath. Her quest to do naughty things atop his bed was abandoned.

   

* * *

 

   _SLAM!_

     Molly jerked awake. She blinked groggily as she heard the sounds of movement from a couple rooms away. She went to stretch and realized  something metallic encircled her wrist. Then, she shot up.

     "Oh, my God!" She whispered.

     She must have fallen asleep and it was clear some time had passed. Sherlock's room was dark with just a bare amount of light through the crack in the curtains. Then reality hit her . . . he was home! She rattled her restraint to no avail.

     "Oh, my god, oh MY GOD!" She hissed through her teeth.

     The flat quieted beyond the door. She listened to the telltale squeak of a heavy tread over the wood floors. Somehow, she just knew it was him and no one else. She yanked the covers up to her nose as the hall bulb switched on and light poured through every seam around the door. She wracked her brain for explanations but nothing  that seemed even remotely believable came to mind.

     "Oh, damnit all to hell," she swore to herself.

     The door swung open with a protesting creak. A swath of light shone directly to where she cowered beneath the linens. A familiar dark figure in a long Belstaff with its collar turned up stood in the transition, his features hidden in the contrasting shadows of the light at his back. For several seconds, she held her breath. Then, he flicked a switch on the wall. A torchiere lamp in the corner bathed the bedroom in a soft, yellow glow.

     "Molly?"

     She swallowed as she gazed up at him. His eyes narrowed on her briefly and then quickly took in the scene. Her face flashed hot and cold like a cephlapod trying to warn off a predator as he studied the scene. She wanted to say something but her tongue went numb in her mouth. Even as mortified as she was to be caught, she still found herself awestruck by his beauty. Everything about him was perfect from the exaggerated contours of his cheeks and jaw to the touchable, soft curls atop his head. His gaze flicked from her clothes, to where she clutched the covers to her chest with her free hand, to the restraint on her other wrist. His chin drifted up.

     A crease cleaved his brow and his lips poked out as he appeared to come to some conclusion. "You did this to yourself."

     Molly's flash of utter humiliation felt like it was going to melt the skin off her face. She hung her head and covered her eyes.

     "Oh, Christ, Sherlock. I am so sorry. I wasn't waiting for you, o-okay? I had meant to o-only be here for a short while but bollocks, I dropped the key to . . . t-to these."

     She shook her wrist so he could hear the cuffs rattle. Again, she heard his footfalls across the floor. He was coming closer, she thought she might die of asphyxiation while she held her breath.

     "Where is the key?" He asked.

     Her chest shuddered in the next breath. She couldn't look at him.

     "U-Under the bed."

     Molly tentatively opened her eyes when she heard shuffling and saw that he had stooped down. He was so close she could almost reach down and bury her fingers in his hair. She inhaled a deep breath. He smelled as he always did, like wood and citrus and clean linens and . . . male. There was always that underlying, warm masculinity that emanated from him like a potent pheromone. She felt a bit of panic spike through her then as she watched the way his jacket pulled over her shoulders. It was terrifying to be near enough to see the raised stitch pattern in the fabric but then feel the cold comprehension of the loss to come seep into her flesh. After this, he would probably never want to see her again. All she had was this moment and it felt miserably fleeting. Then it was gone.

     Sherlock stood up over her with the key in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers with a contemplative expression for a spell. His face was otherwise unreadable.

     "How long have you been here?" He asked.

     She gulped. "A few hours, I guess."

     He leaned forward over her, his scarf and coat draped in her face a moment. In the next instant, she was free of the shackle but not of his hold. He dropped the cuffs on the nightstand and lifted her hand up to inspect her wrist. Fingers capable of crushing her forearm gently explored the delicate bones of her joint. Her senses reacted like they had been amped up with a static charge. Her skin contracted over her scalp and tingled down her spine.

     "Does it hurt?" He murmured, his blue-green eyes focussed intently on her face.

     She shook her head. Once again her tongue swelled. Her eyes flew to where he loosely held on. She watched in fascination as his thumb, with its skin somewhat calloused, rubbed against her pulse and into the divot of her palm. Then, like he was returning a handkerchief, he offered her hand back to her and she withdrew it to her lap. Without another word, he stepped to his armoire, retrieved a dressing gown and set it on her lap.

     "I imagine you have need of the facilities," he murmured, turning his broad back.

     Molly jumped up and donned the gown. "Y-Yes, thank-you."

     She practically ran by him on her way to the bathroom down the hall. Once inside, she shut the door and let out a whoosh of breath. Still, her face flamed. She glanced at herself in the mirror and went another two shades of deeper crimson. She spent several minutes after tending to business pacing the small room, trying to figure out what she was going to say. Then, she remembered what she had left behind in his bed. Her toys! She gasped. For a moment, she was gripped with pure horror and unable to move.

     "Oh. My. God!"

     She tore out of the bathroom with a prayer on her lips, the too-large dressing gown flew back as she ran. She flung herself into Sherlock's room but found herself clutching the halves of the dressing gown at her throat while gazing upon the second act of her worst nightmare. Sherlock had discarded his Belstaff and suit jacket and taken a seat on the bed. Her tote with its naughty implements sat next to him, its top gaped open. She froze again. All she could do was stare.

     For a few seconds, he remained where he was, leaned over with his elbows resting in his knees. One foot danced beneath him as if he had too much energy to contain. He stared down at his hands where he absentmindedly pulled his scarf through his grasp one way and then back the other. The fringed ends trailed through his fingers. Several times he did that until his chin lifted and his eyes sought hers.

     "I find myself perplexed, Molly," his deep voice rumbled across the room.

     "Sherlock," she whispered. "I-I . . ."

     His lips twitched. "You seem distressed to have been caught but . . . you had to know that I would find out, that you could not hide this from me."

     Molly felt her knees soften. She trembled. He wasn't wrong. An expositional part of her wanted him to know what he inspired in her, what lengths she would go to satisfy her lust for him. She hadn't really reasoned through her need to connect to Sherlock before that very moment, she had just followed her zany libido into madness. Yet, it all seemed so obvious after the fact. Her subconscious would have found a way to betray her visit eventually.

     She crossed her arms tightly. "I . . . don't know what to say. What can I say? God, I am so sorry, Sherlock."

     He frowned and pulled the scarf through his hand again. Deep in his eyes, she could see the glint and grind of his thoughts. Then, he nodded his head sideways as if to spur her over. Confused, Molly walked in stilted steps until she occupied the space in front of him. His gaze flicked from her bare feet, up the length of the dressing gown to her face. A muscle jumped in his jaw. She wished she knew what he was thinking. The uncertainty was agony.

     "What was my role was in this fantasy you wanted to act out? Was I your kidnapper?"

     Molly scuffed her foot against the floor nervously. "No."

     "A bad date then?"

     She shook her head. "Erm . . . oh! Definitely not! I . . . oh, Christ . . . it is so very hard to explain."

     Sherlock twisted the scarf in his hands.

     “Try.”

     Molly looked back over her shoulder at her clothing. She wondered if she should get dressed.

      “No,” his voice was deadly quiet.

      Her head snapped back. “Wh-What?”

      The detective rose from the bed until she found herself in his shadow. His face, full of concentration, regarded her with an intensity that made her belly quiver.

      “I said, ‘no’ as in, you are not allowed to dress.”

      The undercurrent of resolve in his tone sent another delicious tremor through her body. Her insides flushed with heat. Sherlock’s focus shifted to her mouth. A deep inhalation made his chest rise and fall like the swell of a tide.

      “You like to be controlled, is that it? You would like for me to dominate you, to take my pleasure from your body, to do with you what I want?”

      Molly gawped up at him like she was looking at an alien. She completely forgot about everything except his blistering hot series of questions.

     “Oh, God, yes,” she rasped.

     His lid twitched. “Do you want to . . . feel pain?”

     She rubbed her lips together. “Not pain but I like to feel uncomfortable. I-I like to be restrained and a bit . . . helpless.”

     He nodded. “Do you have a phrase or a word you like to use to communicate when something is off limits?”

     Her lungs burned. She could not catch her breath. Her skin goose-pimpled from her feet to her neck. Her dressing gown hung heavy on her shoulders.

     “Do you mean like a safe word?” She panted.

     Sherlock dipped his head.

     “Cherry,” she thought she might faint.

     He gave just a barely discernable nod of his head. “Cherry it is.”

     Molly stared at him in a shocked daze. For a few seconds, Sherlock appeared to memorize her face, then slipped a large hand around the back of her neck and drew her forward. He squeezed her nape and angled her head up. Again his gaze lingered on her lips. A heartbeat later, he descended with an open mouth that chased hers up. He teased his kiss that way until her own lips trembled and parted, then his generous, yielding lips were on hers like a man half-starved. His other hand, the scarf still wadded in his grasp, pressed into the small of her back and she was held tightly against his solid length.

     She almost came undone. Sherlock Holmes was kissing her! Her knees buckled and he clutched her closer to prevent her from slipping from his hold.  It was as if her dark dreams had come to life. His lips urged hers farther apart and then his tongue thrust into her mouth like a broad sword. She touched her tongue to his, then stroked it shyly only to hear him groan from deep in his chest.

     “Molly Hooper,” he lifted his lip, “do you really want to know what it means to belong to me?”

     Her heart fluttered. “Y-Yes, yes, a million times yes.”

     Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “And you are certain you are ready to submit?”

     She nodded enthusiastically.

     He kissed her again briefly. Then, he let go and stepped back. His perusal raked her frame again. He stretched his neck.

     “I want you naked. Now. Remove your dressing gown.”

     She glanced up at him. Her tummy flip-flopped. Already, moisture gathered between her legs. Her fantasy wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. It was real and better than she had ever imagined. Excitement and anxiousness caused every inch of her flesh to flush. They were doing this. Dear God, she marveled, they were going to do this and in the gloriously naughty way she had always imagined.

      Molly pushed the gown off her shoulders as he watched with a heat in his eyes. The silky fabric whispered to the floor and pooled at her feet. Her nipples puckered in the cool air. Once again, dots prickled her skin all over. For a moment, she steeled herself under his scrutiny. His eyes took in everything like a greedy voyeur. Just as she was beginning to feel excruciatingly self-conscious, he licked his lips.

     “My turn. Undress me.”

     She gulped but found her courage. Hesitantly, she reached for the buttons of his shirt and then, one by one, flicked them open down his chest. He didn’t assist her, just watched her every movement. Her pace quickened as his muscular chest was revealed under his crisp, white shirt. In short order, she yanked the ends of it from his trousers and worked on his belt. She reached for the scarf in his hand but he jerked it away.

     “Mm, mm,” his eyes flashed, “we are going to need that.”

     Molly’s face warmed and she continued at her task. Pushing his shirt off his rounded, well-defined shoulders was easy; his trousers offered more resistance. She held her breath as she slid her fingers under the waist band over the taut curve of him bum. He was already very much excited and the strain in his pants proved an imposition. His hands slid up her bare back, chasing tingles up her spine. Everything about him overwhelmed her senses from his heat to his smooth skin to his lean, hard form beneath her fingers.

     “Oh, Lord, Sherlock,” she breathed, “you are s-so bloody fit.”

     He made another deep sound of satisfaction and kissed her again while she finally divested him of his pants. His rigid erection jutted into her belly bold and, she swore internally, ridiculously large! She couldn’t get over it. Sherlock was beyond aroused. For her.

     He walked her back to the bed and sat down while she stood before him. He looked up at her through a curl that had fallen over his brow and then clasped her hands. One by one, he looped his scarf around her wrists. The soft fabric pulled tight against her skin, then he did a funny loop and her wrists were bound together. She flexed her hands, tested the knot and found it unyielding. Her heart began to pound. Her sex twinged and washed with a heady sensation. He tugged at the loose end of the scarf.

     “On your knees, Molly,” he murmured, “I need to feel your sweet lips around my cock.”

     She nodded and swallowed. She was practically vibrating as she lowered herself to kneel in front of him. She was so ready to have more of him, to feel him react to her tongue lapping at his stiff shaft. She wanted to hear him moan like nothing she had ever wanted before. She shuffled to his lap where his long, thick manhood stood erect from his neatly trimmed torso. She took a moment to drink the rest of him in. His stomach was lean and muscled. His thighs were girthy and powerful. His skin was smooth and creamy, flushed with a faint pink.

     She looked up at him as she bent forward, excited to see his reaction. His pupils were large and his expression full of anticipation. She dipped down, still looking at him and then licked up between his sac. His flesh contracted and his sac tightened, pulling up his balls. A sharp intake of breath whistled past his lips. It emboldened her and she licked at his bunched flesh again. Then, she trailed her tongue up to the top of his head, corralled it and took it into her mouth. His hips bucked and he swore when her lips closed around him. His wide cock stretched and strained her jaw. She felt a yank at her wrists again and his fingers threaded into her hair. He curled them until she felt the sting of her hair pulling on her scalp. She closed her eyes and moaned, the sound vibrated his flesh. It was a wicked feeling, the power he had in that moment, yet she too felt like she had power - the power to make him mad with lust.

     Molly drew back, slathered his head and allowed him to urge her down on him until he bumped into the back of her throat. He panted. Again, she felt him jerk and so she repeated her stroke down his wet shaft. She worked her tongue as she went. She could feel the undulations of his flesh and that intimate knowledge caused her insides to throb with need. Every time she rose up to his head again, she licked around the stiff ridge. Soon, she was plunging down on him with abandon, the ripple of his veins glided past her lips. Every time he hit her throat, she felt the faint urge to gag but at the same time, a burst of pleasure between her legs. There was something so incredibly raw about what she was doing to him.

     “Oh, unh, Molly, unh, damn . . .”

     He was thrusting his hips up from the bed to meet her ministrations. His hold was so tight on her hair, her scalp tingled. She thought he might come in his next few sucks but he lifted her head off him. His eyes glittered down at her.

     “Don’t be a naughty girl, now,” Sherlock mumbled as he wound the end of the scarf binding her wrists around his hand, “I have things I want to do to you yet.”

     Molly swallowed. He jerked her up from the floor by her hands and pushed her onto the bed on her knees. He followed up thrusting his hips into her backside, his cock slid between her legs against her cleft. Then, he pulled the scarf up along with her arms and lashed her wrists to the metal crossbars on the top of his head board. Her insides coiled tightly and she felt a strain in her arms and shoulders as she was partially suspended. Sherlock’s fingers clamped her hips and he rocked his pelvis against hers a few times, gliding his stiff rod against her lips as a tease.

     “Mm, you still good?”

     She nodded, she was more than good. “Uh-huh.”

     God, she was ecstatic. She had no idea what he was going to do next. She bit the side of her arm to keep from begging him to fuck her.

    Sherlock’s large hands explored her body. He trailed then down her arms, over her back and onto her bum where he kneaded her cheeks. He gave her bum a light slap

     “Mm, Molly, your body was made for me,” his deep voice intoned.

     She perked it up a bit and wriggled her derriere. He rubbed his hands over it again and then spread her legs. She felt just a draft and then his fingers slid down into her cleft. Before she could even think, one long male finger and then two penetrated her body.

     “Mmmff,” she cried. “Ah, unh.”

     Sherlock slid them out and back in. his thumb swirled on her clit. He repeated the maddening torment. A harsh breath expunged from his lips.

     “Christ, you are so wet.”

     “Yes,” her sex clenched on his digits, “oh, yes. For you.”

     “Mmmm.”

     Sherlock’s fingers left her body. He shuffled around. She heard a click and the tell-tale buzz of her vibrator. Her skin flared hot up her neck. She practically gnawed on her arms once more. He was going to use it on her! She felt another twinge of eagerness at her core. Then, her toy was at her entry and he swirled it around before plunging it in. She whimpered and pushed her hips back, her binds pulled at her arms, her breasts jiggled and felt heavy on her chest. She was eager to have fulfillment and eager to satiate the tenseness in her belly. Several times he probed the buzzing toy in and out of her until she was writhing.

     “Molly, I wished you could see how this looks,” he mumbled, “the way your lips cling to it. It’s supremely . . . effective.”

      She bit her lip. “Don’t you want to . . . to feel that, erm, feel me?”

     The vibrator retracted. Next thing she knew he was positioned at her backside again. He gathered a handful of her hair and tugged it to pull back her head. Her body arched in reaction.

     Sherlock rubbed his bulbous head at her entry. “I want nothing more.”

     In the most surreal moment of her life with her hands bound and her body semi-hanging, she felt the first push of his broad head into her body. She was completely at Sherlock Holmes’ mercy. He was about to invade her body with his massive member. She bit down on her bottom lip. With one powerful, deliberate stroke, he breached her defenses and plummeted into her like an anchor sinking to the bottom of the ocean. His hips slammed into her backside. His balls slapped against her sex. She felt nearly split apart and lifted off her knees with the sudden intrusion. With a grunt, his cock slid partially out and then he buried himself deeper, jolting her entire body. The fill of him was visceral and consuming. There were so many sensations within her all at once; a stretch, an expansion, and a solid, insistent possession. She let out the longest, most satisfied sigh of her life.

     “Mmm, good Lord, Sherlock. Fuck!” She gripped him. “You are huge."

     “Huuu-uh,” he shuddered, “no, Molly. It is you. You are so tight.”

     Sherlock groaned and swore. He withdrew and pumped again, plumping her bottom with each return. He fucked her slowly like that for a while, like he was mapping her cunt with his cock. Finally, she started insistently meeting his drives. With a grunt, his pace gradually increased until his hips thrust over and over so hard he was driving her towards the headboard. Her pleasured cries fell from her lips with every rut. She was so wet she could hear herself slurping on him with each stroke. Soon, his breathing labored at her back and the sounds of his pleasure echoed in her ears. It was all too much and too real and she felt herself tumbling down a hill at full speed in short order. Her clit pulsed a couple times, then she was nearly screaming with her release. Her sex spasmed and contracted around his cock. His stroking slowed but he continued to pinion her dripping cunt.

     “Greedy,” he chuckled and thrust, reminding her how very hard he still was, “greedy little thing.”

     Molly twitched as his next stroke elicited another little shockwave. “Mm, Sherlock, just mm. That was everything-”

     He laughed. “Do not think we are even close to done here, Ms. Hooper.”

     Sherlock withdrew his shaft. He shuffled around again and he reached past her to pluck the knot securing her wrists. He then refastened her bound hands to the lowest cross-brace on the headboard and pushed her chest down to the bed. She shrieked in giddy surprise when he jerked her ankles and she fell to her tummy on the bed with a bounce. She sucked in a little breath as she heard the squirt of fluid from a bottle. Sherlock positioned himself behind her bum between her legs.

     “I have made a deduction, Molly,” Sherlock murmured, rubbing his cock between her cheeks, “I noticed that you have more than one dildo in your collection. I imagine they are for different purposes.”

      Molly quivered all over. “Th-They are.”

     “So, we will not be doing anything you haven’t experimented with before, then.”

     Her breathing became stilted. Was he going to do what she thought he was? All of a sudden, she was aching for him again. Her sex flared to life and flooded with an aching need. She curled her toes. Was he? Was he, she wondered? She wanted to ask but was terrified he would be repulsed by what she hoped he would do.

     “Oh, fuck,” she hissed.

    Fingers slick with a filmy substance swirled around her other entrance. More lube was applied. She was shaking with anticipation. She felt his head rub against that spot and whimpered a little cry.

     “If this isn’t something you want, now would be the time for safe words,” he rasped as he planted his hands either side of her ribs.

     She pushed back a bit, feeling his head probe against her anus. Her sex was feverishly hot and swollen with lust. She had never done this with a man before. She had never trusted anyone to penetrate her other orifice, but she trusted Sherlock. Even though she was tied and utterly at his mercy, she trusted him.

     “No safe words needed,” she whispered. “I want it. I want you.”

     “This might hurt,” he warned.

     She suppressed a moan. “I-I don’t care.”

     Sherlock pushed up. He squirted some more lube and she could hear the quiet slap of it as he stroked it along his shaft. More lube was applied to the spot between her cheeks until they felt cool and slippery. The bed dipped beside her as he supported himself with one hand. His impossibly hard cock slid between the halves of her bum and probed up against her anus. Then, the pressure started. It was as if he were seeking entry at a wall, her body resisted. Languidly, he pushed forward as she panted against the linens. Peculiar cries huffed from her lips. He was stretching her beyond belief, beyond endurance. Every so often, he would pull back only to jerk forward as if he were losing control. She focused on relaxing as the pressure built. Finally, when she thought she could take no more, he popped inside causing a sharp lance of pain.

     “Ha-ah! Ah!” She winced.

     Molly huffed against the blistering throb and the alien feel of him. He stopped his forward momentum for a spell. The pain quickly receded and was replaced by a strange mix of her body wanting to reject him but desperate for more.

     “Is it too much?” He began to retract.

     She swallowed the saliva which had built up in her mouth. “Unh, no, no, it feels . . . mmph, it feels good. Please, don’t . . . don’t stop.”

     She could feel Sherlock quake. Then, he pushed further into her body. She could feel every ripple of every fibre beneath his smooth skin as he dragged through her muscle. The fullness was mind altering. She panted as he seated himself deep in her canal and his sac pressed up against her cunt.

    “Uuunnnh,” the feeling was more intense than anything she’d ever experienced.

    She fought against the strange urge to push him out.

    “Uuunnnh,” she cried as he pulled out and drove in slowly again, her wrists pulled at her binds. “Unnnh. Oh, fu-uck. Fuck.”

     Sherlock inhaled a deep breath above her as if fortifying himself. His breathing was harsh, though, and he did not seem to be able to temper it. Still, his pace continued, unhurried. He applied some more lube. Gradually, as her fevered cries increased, his in and out cycle hastened. She found herself perking her bum to meet his thrusts eagerly, totally lost to the wicked fulfillment. She started cussing and abandoned all modesty. A different kind of tension built, it was a familiar yet more overwhelming need. She was crying at the way her sex throbbed, at the way his shaft wreaked havoc on her senses. Soon, he sounded differently as well and his body twitched uncontrollably. She knew he was close.

    “Sherlock, mm, unh . . . you are going to make me come again.”

    “Yes,” he jerked into her, burying himself to his base, “come for me.”

    Molly let go, let out a final cry and allowed the wave of sensation to carry her away. Her body was wracked with a shockwave that was so pleasurable, it was like getting high. Sherlock plunged into her canal, squeezed her hips with iron-like fingers and emptied into her body. Then, he fell to his elbows over her, arched his body and his member spurted deep into her arse. She squeezed her eyes tightly and rode the echoes of her orgasm until she was weak and almost smothered beneath him.

     They stayed like that for a few moments, their bodies twitching.  Sherlock phantom pumped into her with each resound of his orgasm. Then he slipped out of her and flipped her onto her back. She stretched out, her arms still tied above her head. Suddenly, she was shy again. Her face flushed. He stood up from the bed and smirked down at her. He looked so incredibly handsome, his brow was slick with sweat and his hair a wild tangle. She couldn’t help but feel proud at the pink flush of satisfaction in his cheeks.

    “I will return shortly,” he winked.

    She heard him move down the hall to his bathroom. She rubbed her lips together and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. She could not believe what they had just done. Sherlock Holmes had fucked her in every place imaginable. She had orgasmed, twice. Her face went white hot. What did it mean for them? Was this a one-time thing? Would they go back to being mere friends or was this the beginning of the end for them? She listened to the water run for a minute.

     Sherlock returned with a towel and sat next to her on the bed. He tended to her, wiped away the results of their coupling and then leaned over to kiss her leisurely.

    His fingers stroked her face. “Mm, I want to keep you like this.”

    He looked down the length of her body again. “Mm, yes, I am very tempted to make you my sex slave, Molly Hooper.”

     She drew in a little breath. “That might not work.”

    His brow raised. His blue-green eyes narrowed seductively.

    “Hmm?”

    “Well, I would hardly be a slave if I was complicit in my confinement.”

    He chuckled and loosened the ties on her wrists. When she was free of his scarf, he tossed it aside, gathered her up to him and kissed her again. His lips moved over hers sweetly. She looped her arms behind his neck.

     “Molly,” he breathed as he pushed her hair back from her face, “do you always like your sex this way?”

     She shook her head. “Not always, I think I am like most people. I like variety. Wh-Why?”

    He kissed her cheek and her nose. His adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes flicked back and forth over her face.

    “Because . . . as stunning as that was, I . . . I care deeply for you and I would very much like to make love to you sometime.”

     Her heart skipped a beat. “R-Really?”

     He nodded. “You have to know how I feel about you.”

     Sherlock’s brow furrowed. An insecure thought seemed to disturb him.

     “Y-You had to have figured it out by now. Molly-“

     She was overcome. She grabbed his face and kissed him. She sobbed against his mouth.

     “Don’t, don’t say it unless you mean it,” she begged, “don’t say it just because we did this.”

     Sherlock growled. “What? That I love you? I love you. I would never say it unless I meant it.”

     Molly kissed him over and over and then covered his face with kisses.

     “You love me too,” he murmured.

     “Of course I do, I have always loved you, Sherlock Holmes . . . always, always.”


End file.
